Contents
Cover
Also by William Sutton
Title Page
Copyright
Map
Epigraph
Part I: Prism of Delight
Part II: Keeper of Vices
Part III: Confounded Confederacies
Part IV: Circles Close
Part V: FINAL FLOURISH
Part VI: Lost and Found
Part VII: On a Bed so Wild
Part VIII: To Put Our Griefs to Sleep
Dramatis Personae
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM WILLIAM SUTTON AND TITAN BOOKS
Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square
Lawless and the House of Electricity (July 2017)
Lawless and the Flowers of Sin
Print edition ISBN: 9781785650116
E-book ISBN: 9781785650123
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First Titan edition: July 2016
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
William Sutton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
© 2016 by William Sutton
Map illustrations by William Sutton.
Map design by Rebecca Lea Williams.
Map typography by Titan Books.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Our sins are stubborn, our repentance vain;
We make ourselves pay liberally our oaths,
And blithely head back on the filthy path,
Believing worthless tears may cleanse our stains.
Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal
PART I
PRISM OF DELIGHT
NOVEMBER 1863
A very little key will open a very heavy door.
Charles Dickens, Hunted Down
SENSATION
If you’re after one of those sensation novels, you had better look elsewhere. A prettified heroine flutters her lashes to bewitch the eligible bachelor; he never guesses at her guilty past until, strolling gas-lit alleys, she makes confession of her sins, turning doe eyes upon him, as the organ-grinder’s ballad reaches a lonely climax.
Trumped-up potboilers purporting to cut to the heart of our diseased society, throwing us through precipitous chicanery with never a moment to examine the characters’ inward lives, they titillate our fancy, turn our stomach, leave us empty. Too trite, too comforting, these maids falling from grace, men besotted with aunts, purloined identities, revelatory memoirs; they give the glow of gratification, but their revelations are gossamer-thin. If that is the kind of tosh you like, look elsewhere. Pontificate, as you sup from your dainty cup on the plush divan, on the scurrilous morals of today’s authors, so bent on scandalising us that we will not be able to wait for next week’s instalment. Oh, let us have it sooner: let us have it today!
Bah.
But turn down the blind, follow the street seller home to his bloodied spouse—follow your own husband, or your wife, equivocating on their destination of an evening—and you shall find scandal closer to home. How near disaster lies. Ruin shadows us all, however grand, however insignificant. The streets are paved with the bodies of the trampled, and you and I, if we pay no heed to such warnings, are as like to fall underfoot as anyone.
My story is not one of these sensation tales.
My story has eyes blackened by blows, crinolines ripped to reveal voluptuous flesh bruised by careless knuckles. Gas lamps smashed to give cover of darkness, deluding the common man that nobody sees his weakness, and if nobody sees, no one will know how low he sinks in the mouldy bedroom of a Pimlico penny brothel, with filthy pictures peeling off damp walls, as the rickety bed creaks and jilters, while wealthy gents watch through peepholes for three and six an hour.
Do you think me jaundiced by my profession? Are my protests gauche? There are those in the police who blacken their hands in the filth that once appalled them. Now that penny dreadfuls are de rigueur in the drawing room, no depravity is too shocking for entertainment. And what is wrong with that? These gratifications distract us. The fleeting glow of shock lulls us from the greater crimes around us every day, crimes so familiar we no longer notice them.
This is not one of those sensation novels.
Nor is it one of those so-called detective stories that fill our newspapers and railway stations. There was nothing to detect. The facts were plain before my eyes. I had only to dig into the teeming fecundity of colours laid before me—and I failed.
There is no right place to begin such a story; and yet I must begin.
This is the story of a man. And of a girl. A host of girls. The Flowers of Sin. Flowers of evil, grown in the London filth. Entrancing flowers that bloom in the spring and are withered by autumn, devoured in the compost by this voracious species of worm to which we all belong.
It is, most of all, the story of Felix.
WELCOME ARRIVALS
The girl whooped. Bubbles bobbed and weaved beyond her outstretched arms. She skipped after them across the blanket of virgin snow, the Quarterhouse quadrangle unused to such frivolity. She clasped her dainty hands upon one, and it vanished. She darted into my path, as I headed for the porter’s lodge. I moved her aside, my curt smile ill masking my vexation.
Where the hell were Molly and her troupe of entertainers?
I strode through the great stone archway and glared out into the square. Along the ancient walls, fine carriages crowded to drop off the gentry for our charitable do. Before they could be ushered safely into the Master’s Lodgings, shoeblacks and nostrum vendors clamoured for their attention, chastised continually by my colleagues. A fruitless harassment: these lurkers’ services were as useful as ours. But such skirmishes abounded wherever the “two nations” met, the thresholds we police continually patrol between have and have-not, ease and malaise. Whom we are protecting from whom is seldom explicit.
Where were Molly’s bloody tumblers and strollers? If she let me down, the commissioner would be sorely embarrassed; and if I embarrassed Sir Richard, there would be hell to pay. I stared out across the cobbled square glowing in its fresh sheet of snow. Infuriating that I, a detective of Scotland Yard, should be at the mercy of this ragamuffin and her ragtag rabble.
As I was cursing Molly’s damnable timekeeping, two worn-out nags entered Quarterhouse Square dragging tumbrel carts, and trudged towards the gates.
Observing this, as he leaned against the gateway, a curious old fellow stood puffing at his pipe. He nodded to me genteelly. For a moment, I thought he might be the porter; I had better reassure him that I, as sergeant in charge, could vouch for this unholy congregation. Noting the contrast between his noble face and threadbare suit, I realised he was more likely one of the Quarterhouse Brothers. The Quarterhouse, once a monastery, was long since become a home for elderly men fallen on hard times. Selected on rigorous (though secret) criteria, these impoverished gents enjoyed a comfortable life in this, the
most refined almshouse in London—more charitable club than almshouse—endowed by some old financier grown rich on ordnance and usury.
As the East End bells chimed the hour, I waved Molly’s carts into the archway. There they disgorged the strangest human cargo I had ever seen. The old gent and I watched the dwarf acrobats, crippled jesters, half-dressed dancing girls tumble out; lean sinews, strong brows, trumpets, timpani and flashes of flesh. As I sought Molly’s ginger mop amid the cavalcade, the old fellow addressed me.
“There’s something refreshing about their flaunting of physical defects, wouldn’t you say?” His accent was clipped, so precise and English that he must be a foreigner. He nodded to a pair of peepshow grotesques. “They are as God made them. Criticise and be damned.”
His companionable tone cut through my mood, and I couldn’t help but smile. The grey old fellow set about stoking his pipe—not without difficulty, for his right hand was disfigured—clenching the tobacco against his overcoat. I was about to offer assistance, when he flipped the pouch into his waistcoat pocket with the ease of long practice. The pipe whirled into place between his lips. I looked him up and down. An engaging old fellow. Besides this dexterity and his old world overcoat, there was a music to his movements—
“Lucifer, old man?” Molly clapped me on the back. She loved to creep up on me unawares; it was her way of proving an urchin knew the streets better than any Scotland Yard sleuthhound. She patted my stomach familiarly. “You’re in rude ’ealth, by the looks of it.”
“My health isn’t the rudest thing in the vicinity, you wee street Arab.”
She ignored my insult and struck a match for the old fellow.
I ruffled her mop of ginger hair, which annoyed her. “I can offer you lessons in reading a clock.”
“Have I ever let you down?”
I simply looked at her.
She rolled her eyes, then fanned out a deck of cards with a friendly wink. “Choose a card, sir, any card.”
The grey old gent smiled, chose a card, showed it to me for confirmation, and slipped it back into the pack.
Molly put her fingers to her temples, her mind-reading pose, and declared portentously, “King of hearts.”
“I’m afraid not, young lady.”
“Queen, I meant.” She frowned, her face falling. “Jack?”
He shook his head kindly.
She sighed, putting away the cards with a tragic air.
“Consummate showman.” I aimed a kick at her backside. “Get on with it.”
“I promised you a show, Watchman.” She puffed herself up to her full height, five foot nothing, and marched off into the party. “By Beelzebub, you shall have one.”
“Speechifying at eight, Moll,” I called after her, “if you can learn the time by then.”
The old gent laughed, at her bravado or our complicity. “Pipe, young man?”
“That’s kind of you, sir.” I anxiously surveyed the quadrangle. After the hectic preparations, I would have liked nothing better than to dally. Oh, for a moment’s peace. How a little snow throws Londoners into consternation: the butchers of Smithfield refuse to deliver a pig all of two hundred yards; champagne doubles in price; reputable thespians cancel all theatricals. Hence Molly and her troupe: these misshapen performers hastily sweeping the snow aside, unrolling their rustic dance floor, erecting stalls for mulled cider, peepshows, and the World’s Smallest Theatre. No, I could not shrug off my responsibilities yet, not until Molly’s scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells won over our glittering guests. “Perhaps later,” I sighed.
“Of course, Sergeant.”
I had not introduced myself, but the gent, perceiving my haste, withdrew to finish his pipe in the square, leaving me to commence battle.
THE WORLD’S SMALLEST THEATRE
The girl was still chasing bubbles. She gasped as a vast, roiling bubble rolled toward her, produced by a louche gent to amuse his talkative clique, in high spirits as they raided the punchbowl early. The rest of the revellers emerged from the Master’s Lodgings, where, rather than doff their coats they acquired extra scarves and gloves. All around, a squadron of tumblers and stiltsmen began cartwheeling through these statesmen, tradesmen, jostlers and journalists. While Molly fussed over the World’s Smallest Theatre prior to the curtain-raiser, I exchanged an inspiriting word with caterers and serving staff.
The lass gazed through the bubble’s rainbow whorls, veiling the scene in sapphire and emerald, gold and vermillion. She reached out, laughing. People in their finery turned toward that youthful laughter, as flowers toward the sun. She reached out her fingertip, resisting temptation, resisting, oh—
The bubble burst. The most delicate of touches. The girl clutched at her taffeta dress and burst into tears. She turned her eyes upon me in mute appeal. All around, fops and functionaries, ladies and waiters looked toward me, as if the girl was any concern of mine.
I snorted. She might be with the caterers, a sister hauled along to sell biscuits and cider. She might have been one of Molly’s lot, but for being here before their arrival. With fashions today, she might even be some royal cousin or niece attending Prince Bertie and Princess Alix; I never could keep up with the Saxe-Coburgs’ efforts to dominate the globe (if I interpret Mr Darwin correctly).
The girl wailed.
The onlookers held their breath in distaste. I laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder and crouched beside her.
“Don’t fuss,” I said. I was tempted to remind her that she was the agent of her own downfall, but she gave me such a look that I held off moralising. Was she servant or guest? No parent was evident, and the caterers paid her no mind. “Who are you with?”
She stared in disdain, then recommenced her wilful wailing. I had misjudged, if not her age, her sham innocence. In my haste to quiet her, I pulled from my pocket the first thing I could find. A penny. I exhibited it between my fingers, then, as Molly had taught me, snapped my thumb—and it vanished.
The girl broke off her wailing.
The crowd about us relaxed. We were part of the show, rather than a disruption.
The girl stared. She prised off my hat and peered beneath. She turned her attention to my whiskers. Before she could tug them off, I snapped my fingers again, peered at her—and drew the coin out of her ear.
She began to giggle, like sunshine burning through fog.
“Bravo, Sergeant,” called the smarmy gents who caused the bother with their childish bubble-blowing.
Snatching the coin, with a penurious look, she wriggled away and vanished among the revellers. The chief bubble-blower made a ribald comment, then turned back to his punch. I gazed after her, blinking. Such an odd blend of childishness and self-possession. Her lucrative exit suggested she had known poverty; no, this was no princess. “Shift your dish, Watchman.” Molly elbowed me aside, taking up position as Master of Ceremonies. “Sir Richard hisself is after you, in them cloisters there.”
“What does he want?”
Molly rolled her eyes. She had tolerated my complaints for months, long before this charity ball was dreamt up. I was persona non grata at Scotland Yard ever since resolving a case underground, a case which caused disruption and death, which saw my inspector retire under a cloud—and of which I am not permitted to speak. Voices high up cast me as the troublemaker. I spent a year pursuing dead-end causes, while the knotty puzzles were handed to Darlington and the juiciest adventures to Jeffcoat, my competent, uninspired peers. Not that I’m the jealous type.
Sir Richard finally took pity. Seeing my glum face pass his door each morning, he made me organiser of this charitable shindig as a tonic, to get me out of the Yard’s drear backrooms. It would be simple; it should be diverting. To launch a new charitable fund, the Phoenix Foundation for Fallen Women, some kind-hearted old musician fellow—one of the Quarterhouse Brotherhood—had persuaded the capital’s wealthy to help the capital’s vulnerable. The Brothers might be poor, but they were well-connected.
With the snow, however, an
d still November, the city had ground to a halt. My party suppliers came a cropper one by one. If it hadn’t been for Molly’s links with the theatrical underworld (and other underworlds I needn’t list here), my efforts for this worthy cause would have fallen flat. Sir Richard owed me. But what recompense would he offer?
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen.” Molly blasted me aside with her ceremonial tones, as two strongmen deposited a Punch and Judy stand so tiny you could barely believe anyone would fit inside. “The World’s Smallest Theatre presents a tragical comedy: Natural Selection.” The curtains fell away; the puppets were revealed. A farmer was cuddling up with his plump prize pig on a frosty winter’s eve. We all laughed. “Later on,” she continued, “after speeches for the Phoenix Foundation, will follow a most pitiable rendering of Orpheus and Eurydice, a fallen woman indeed. Thereupon the ladies withdraw, and Miss H’s dancing academy conclude the entertainments.”
The audience, though accustomed to sophisticated dramatics, warmed to Molly’s nonsensical patter. As I weaved through the crowd, the pig won us over, snorting through the agricultural year: spring turned to summer, the pig loved, was wooed, married, and was grown fat with child. By the time I crossed the quadrangle, the pig bore sextuplet piggy finger puppets, to hoots of laughter from the suits and gowns.
Hors d’oeuvres were served. The scene changed. The audience chomped into the saucisson and bacon vol-au-vents. Some had the grace to look sheepish, as the fiddle struck up a ghoulish lament, and six tombstones, emblazoned with piggy faces, arose on the tiny stage to dance a dance of death.
COMMISSIONER PAYNE
I scanned the rear cloister, peering in at the rough-hewn windows in search of Sir Richard Payne, commissioner of Scotland Yard. The quadrangle, with revels now in full swing, was surrounded by sandstone cloisters, as antique as any Oxford college. These were surmounted on three sides by the monastic cells that housed the Brotherhood. At the corners overlooking Quarterhouse Square stood the Porter’s Lodge, for servants, and Master’s Lodgings, where gentry came in. At the far corners, the chapel, kitchens and refectory. Beyond this rear cloister, enclosing a walled garden, rose a dilapidated glasshouse. Despite the snow, I had resisted extending the party thither: exuberant behaviour can ruin glasswork and rare plants, and drunken toffs are more heedless than drunken tramps.
Lawless and the Flowers of Sin Page 1